Details like 'where am I going to live' and 'what am I going to do for work' will make me flail and fail if I take them head-on. Today I took some words, put them together in an order I liked, ran the parts that I wasn't too sure about past some of my sanity-checkers, and sent them off to meet the future that I desperately want. Tomorrow, because these things must be done in order, I put some more words together, and see what else will bite, and which will get me a response first. The future I want won't fall giftwrapped into my lap unless I bring the paper.
It's the little details that impress on me how real it is. There are Oreo boxes in my living room, because that's what they were stocking, and they're nice and reasonably-sized, and perhaps just exactly right for books. I have a lot of books. And in the parking lot after IHOP, I was counting the Mondays. This Thursday (tomorrow? Is it tomorrow already?) is perhaps for LJ fudge, or something; the regular connection with the House to prove we're all still human. Saturday is TGIO; the party for the end of NaNo. (Book 1 is waiting in the wings. Book 2 is just done. Book 3 is yet to be. I want to get Cutting-Room Floor out the door first, though. Book 1 can wait for some spare time that we both have.) Monday ... Monday is problematic.
When are finals over? He was studying this Monday. Will he be studying on the 8th? The 15th? We will have time. We will make time. I am acutely aware that suddenly we do not have time. We will assuredly see each other again after I move, for I refuse to allow a universe cruel enough to deny us that, but suddenly I am counting the days and realizing that I can count them. I send an email. They're the short ones, the chatty ones, and somehow I have put enough emotion into a few overburdened sentences to make them want paragraphs to cushion the sting. I don't have paragraphs. We don't have time.
Day by day, I turn to face my new life.